


windows boarded up after the storm

by wandasmaximoffs



Series: mob verse [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, M/M, Mentions of Blood, happy birthday jamie ilu, theyre IN LOVE there is comfort here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: Enjolras still hasn’t said anything. His gaze is still jumping, has been straying from Grantaire, to the muted television, to the door, to his stained shirt pooled on the floor, never staying in one place for long.It makes Grantaire ache, seeing him like this, unsure and afraid; All he wants is to comfort him, but he doesn’t know how. What could he possibly say to soothe him that hasn’t already been said?





	windows boarded up after the storm

Grantaire is sitting on the couch, sketching idly on the back of a takeout menu while  _Real Housewives_ plays out in the background. He wishes he could justify it with the excuse of a bad day, but he can’t-- Sometimes you just want to watch rich people yell at each other while you try and decide what junk to order for dinner.

Sure, there are better things he could be doing. The apartment is a mess, but that’s nothing new; when you’re an artist who works from home, your home kind of becomes collateral damage. He’s under no illusions that he’s gonna be getting his deposit back, should he ever move out.

There’s a knock on the door as he’s trying to break the tie between pizza and  _two_ pizzas; it’s quiet, at first, quiet enough that Grantaire assumes it’s just Gavroche giving a courtesy knock before he picks his locks,  _again._

The knocking gets louder, though, and more forceful in the time it takes for Grantaire to scramble up off the couch and actually  _open the goddamn door._

_“Gavroche,_ what are y-- Oh.”  
  


Enjolras shifts where he stands, eyes darting from the open door, to Grantaire, to the wall and back, never settling on one thing for long. The cut above his eye trickles blood slowly down the side of his face, the same sickening red as the large bloom on his  _usually_ crisp white shirt; If Enjolras even knows it’s  _there,_ he doesn’t acknowledge it, just keeps shifting his gaze back and forth.

“ _Christ,”_ Breathes Grantaire, already pulling Enjolras into the apartment and shutting the door hastily behind them. Enjolras remains silent, even when Grantaire pushes him down onto the couch and darts back over to the shitty kitchenette to wet a rag and pull out the first-aid kit.

Thinking back on the night before, he tries to reconcile the Enjolras in front of him with the Enjolras in his bed, sleep-soft and peaceful, curled around him and breathing evenly. It threatens to make his burgeoning migraine worse, so he lets the thought rest; dwelling on it won’t solve anything.

“It’s not mine,” Enjolras breaks the silence that has settled, ridding himself of his tie and dropping it onto the cushion next to him. They’ve done this enough times that he knows what to do, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “The blood, I mean. I don’t-- I don’t think it is, anyway.”

His voice is hoarse, and Grantaire almost flinches at it; it never gets easier, seeing him like this. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get used to it. Grantaire hopes that’s a good thing-- Who _could_ be used to something like this? Seeing their-- Well, the word  _boyfriend_ seems too small to encompass everything that they are, and everything that they’ve been through already, but there aren’t many other options, so--  _boyfriend,_ injured, and upset? Suddenly, he thinks of Courfeyrac, raging and despondent in turn when Combeferre had returned from what Grantaire could only assume was a gunfight with a mere black eye.

That’s reassuring, at least; nothing about their future is certain, but the knowledge that he’s not  _supposed_ to be used to it brings some comfort.

“We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” Says Grantaire, perching on the coffee table in front of him, “But I have to ask, sweetheart, what  _happened?_ I thought you didn’t have any--  _Business trips_ planned.”

He doesn’t look Enjolras in the eye when he says it, a little ashamed that he still can’t force himself to voice the truths of his boyfriend’s career. Instead, he elects to rifle through the first aid kit and find the antiseptic wipes; Enjolras’ situation looks a lot less dire without the blood stained shirt. He was right, at least, in that the blood wasn’t his. He tries not to think about what that really means.

The silence that follows in lieu of answer is answer enough, and Grantaire assumes that he doesn’t want to talk about it right now. He doesn’t push; Just starts on disinfecting the various cuts and scrapes, taking deep breaths when Enjolras winces and willing himself to keep going. It’s a long process, and one he knows well enough to be confident in declaring him in no need of stitches or more  _experienced_ medical attention.

Enjolras still hasn’t said anything. His gaze is still jumping, has been straying from Grantaire, to the muted television, to the door, to his stained shirt pooled on the floor, never staying in one place for long.

It makes Grantaire  _ache,_ seeing him like this, unsure and afraid; All he wants is to comfort him, but he doesn’t know  _how._ What could he possibly say to soothe him that hasn’t already been said?

He leans forward and kisses him softly, instead; Enjolras sighs into his mouth, relaxing visibly, the tension melting out of his shoulders at the press of his lips.

“I love you,” Murmurs Grantaire, before pulling away. “And I’m going to make some tea, okay?”

 

* * *

 

“I’m okay,” Enjolras says, finally, when Grantaire is on his way back over with two steaming mugs.  “I will be, at least. And-- I’m sorry. For coming here like this.”

Grantaire starts. “What? You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I don’t want you sorry, Enjolras, I want you  _safe._ I’d rather you were here with me than alone at your place.”

“But  _still._ I-- Have a lot to be sorry for, I think.”

Grantaire blinks at him, confused; Enjolras looks fragile like this, curled in on himself on the couch. “I can’t be whole for you,” he says, finally, voice small. “I’ve got pieces missing, and jagged edges. You deserve someone  _whole._ ”

Grantaire’s heart threatens to break where he stands, but now isn’t the time for that. He lowers the mugs onto the coffee table, and drops himself onto the couch beside him, wraps his arms around him carefully to avoid jostling his injuries.

Is this what Enjolras thinks of himself, truly? It must be, since he’s feeling the need to  _apologise_ for it. It’s a kind of vulnerability that Grantaire doesn’t see from him often, and it throws him a little; he’s overwhelmed with the need to make things  _right,_ to make Enjolras see that he’s already so much more than he deserves, that  _he’s_ the one missing so much he sometimes feels more empty air than man.

“I’ve never claimed to be completely whole, myself,” Says Grantaire, and presses a soft kiss to his hair. He’s trembling, ever so slightly; Grantaire takes his hand. “We’re not puzzles, Enjolras. We’re  _people._ I don’t need you to be whole for me, whatever that means. I don’t want you to be. I want you to be  _you,_ jagged edges and all. I love you as you are.”

Enjolras relaxes against him, and when he twists to look at him, the hardness is gone from his features; he looks almost  _relieved._ “I love you,” he says, and despite the fact that they’ve been dating for  _months,_ it still makes Grantaire blush. “So much.”

This, at least, is something he can be sure of; in the twisting, roiling sea that is their future, he clings to this one certainty, that Enjolras will always,  _always_ be enough for him, that he will always love him, in spite of his faults and because of them, and he’ll be loved in return.

It’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY LATE BIRTHDAY JAMIE ILU!!! im sorry i wrote 1k of angst for ur present asdgjhjfg. another mob au fic bc im in love with this verse
> 
> thank u to @ in-love-and-liberty for being so sweet and beta'ing this for me!! as always u can find me on tumblr @ jehanprouvaiire if u have questions/requests/just wanna chat, and ofc feel free to tip ur local fic writers with comments/kudos <333


End file.
